


Purge

by etherati



Series: Kink Bingo Stuff [14]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Dan's not actually there, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, Repression, Walter's hairbrush c.c, which really is a given
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherati/pseuds/etherati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights, Rorschach has his reasons for going home early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purge

**Author's Note:**

> For Kink Bingo(prompt: 'orgasm denial/control'), and part of the loose collection of stories by various authors on the KM detailing the Adventures of Walter And His Hairbrush. c.c

*  
  
The muggy, gaudy summer of 1967 seems to drag on forever, stagnant air filled with the smell of sex and marijuana smoke and bodies held too close under the sweating sun. Every clear night is an opportunity, each brawl a chance for Rorschach to rebalance his own scales after the day's sickening disorientation. He will focus on the violence, on the justice done by his aching hands, the cold arc a body makes when it collapses unconscious to the ground; or he will focus on Nite Owl.  
  
Too often, he focuses on Nite Owl.  
  
And if the balance is in his favor at the end of the night, he will sleep well, or as well as anyone can surrounded by the noisy wickedness of his neighbors, rattling the walls with their depravities. If it is  _not_  in his favor–  
  
*  
  
Walter closes his eyes and presses the tip of the brush handle against himself, feels it start to sink in through the greasiness. He knows well enough to not force it dry, but he will not touch himself with his fingers down there, not anymore. When he was younger and there was no face to go with the fantasy, it was different, but now the warmth of flesh would turn his mind to other fingers, other hands, and how they would feel on his thin, filthy body.  
  
He will not think of Nite Owl. He will not infect him with this.  
  
It's past dawn, the light pink and striated through his eyelids, and Walter's hunched over on himself, curled around the whorish upward tilt of his pelvis. His pants are somewhere across the room, thrown there in a moment's incoherent rage. He often cannot control his desire, but he can control what he makes of it; the unforgiving hardness digs deeper into him at the thought, a frisson of heat thrilling through him at the knowledge that he has that power, to not allow this to become–  
  
_Come up for coffee,_  Nite Owl had said, beckoning him back from the shadows of the tunnel. He'd meant nothing untoward but Walter had still felt himself grow too warm too quickly, breath collecting inside his mask. If the scales were uneven already, that had tipped them, sapping what was left of his composure and leaving him to stand, confused and uncertain, on the threshold of the city.  
  
In the end, he'd refused. He'd told himself he was exhibiting remarkable self-control. The reality was that he'd needed this, the hard, deep burn of it, as soon as he could lay hands on it.   
  
The tip probes, tilted up toward his front, and he's very careful not to think about Nite Owl anymore, his hands or his voice or his damnable kindness, when it finds its target. Walter doesn't moan. He does spread his legs further, toes curling into the ratty sheets, and presses his eyes shut hard enough to see spots.  
  
Too much.  
  
Already too much, and the spike of physical pleasure is something to be ridden out only, allowed to pass over and through him without letting it touch. It's very much like blocking out pain; pushing it out of his mind so that its throbbing, white-hot bodyfeel is nothing more than a distraction. He has walked off broken bones this way.  
  
His hand is sweaty, is slipping on the smooth-worn end, and Walter adjusts his grip, grinding the tip into himself in short, brutal motions. It scrapes over that strange locus of nerve endings harder and harder until the pleasure becomes pain like it should be, until he is taking it like a punishment even as he clenches hard around the wood.  
  
It doesn't give, isn't supposed to. A wet trail starts down the head of his penis; straining untouched, every nerve is alight, and the feeling is unmistakable, warm and cool at once, sticky against the air. It keeps coming, in time with the brush handle's unrelenting strokes, short spurts that drool down into the mess of coarse hair and onto his wrist where it's anchored in the hollow of his hip. Walter ignores the sensations– imagines himself as a vessel, emptying itself of all the loathing and despair he's carried in the sounds of bedsprings and gritty women's voices, cats screaming in the night.  
  
He pictures vice, and filth, and desire as palpable things, and imagines them leaving him, bit by bit.   
  
He pictures himself empty and clean, worthy of standing beside Nite Owl in the lamplight.  
  
These things will not leave him all at once, he won't allow it. They must be drained off slowly lest they build too far and ruin him, and he works himself until there is nothing left, until he's run dry and his groin is sticky with the refuse and he is breathing hard, wrung out, beautifully gutted. He cannot remember if it felt good or bad, pain or pleasure, cannot remember feeling anything at all.  
  
The handle leaves his body easily; it's used to the violation, and knows how to cope with it better than he does.  
  
He will have gained himself a few days at least, a week on the outside, before his sins overwhelm his sense of decency again, undermine his purpose, wriggle in through all his fault lines and cracks and force him back to this place.  
  
For now, he will be able to sleep.   
  
*  
  
"Good evening, Nite Owl," he says when they meet the next night, all composure returned, as serene as he's ever capable of. The air still stinks, sickly sweet, but he does not pay it mind.  
  
Nite Owl just narrows his eyes behind the goggles and clenches his hands inside the gauntlets, leather creasing in minutely rendered detail at all of the joints, and for a moment all Rorschach can see is how they would wrap around a narrow piece of time-worn wood, how he would pull Rorschach out of Walter and Walter out of himself and make him clean, make him good again.  
  
"Evening," Nite Owl says, tone steady. The moon is rising, crescent thin and knife-edged over the skyline, a shining ideal. "Ready to get moving?"  
  
Rorschach nods; pushes something indistinct and paralyzing out of his mind, and treads off into the darkness.  
  
*


End file.
